


Flirting with Death

by kathiya_ramani



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death Play, Established Relationship, Gun Fucking, Gun Kink, Gun play, Horny Sherlock, Hot John, John hasn't even met Mary and I'm happy about it, John's Sig Sauer is a major character, M/M, No Mary, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and John watson - Freeform, anal penetration, submissive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 16:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15100178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathiya_ramani/pseuds/kathiya_ramani
Summary: There's such a liberating feeling which unfetters the very depths of your soul, in trusting yourself unconditionally, no holds barred, into the hands of the man you love. When it is John Watson. Especially when it is John Watson.





	Flirting with Death

**Author's Note:**

> So I got up one morning and thought to myself, let's make love to John's gun.  
> ********Mind the tags. If they trigger you, please take caution not to read.  
> Not britpicked. Not beta'd. The mistakes and errors are all mine, awing to the fact that English is not my native language and I have never set foot in that dear old land .  
> And I don't even know if such woodlands exist anywhere near London . Probably not. A girl with a rampant imagination can make up such things I guess, or so forgive me you loving readers

 

He feels it before he hears it.   
Then the bang!

And the gunshot reverberates in the still air.

  
The frantic "Sherlock, down" doesn't register until after much later. 

Then the cacophony of noises of the hitherto silent forest erupt in full blow. He isn't dead, realizes Sherlock . Surprising, really.  
He knew the exact moment when James Burton raised his pistol, approximately six yards behind him, half hidden by a huge black walnut, he calculated the exact moment James Burton would pull the trigger, and he knew he didn't have as much as a chance of a hair's breadth to duck and avoid the killshot. But now, he feels the coolness of the forest floor against his cheek. And he is hyper-aware of the adrenaline rush that surges through him. He turns his head to see the serial-killer that he and John had been chasing, who has fallen dead, with a clean and neat bullet through the forehead.

Ah! John.

There he is. His steady hand still holding the Sig sauer P226R pointed at the fallen villain. His eyes, a pure blue fire of rage. His face set in a murderous gleam. Like a punishing angel. Angel he is. John Watson. Moral and loyal to a fault. But his moral compass has got nothing much to do with what is legal as it is to do with what is right. And Sherlock has known, from their very first night as flatmates, that John has no qualms to send a villain hell-ward at short notice. He wouldn't bat an eyelid. And the sight of his ex-army, gun-wielding, homicidal, avenging angel causes his blood to rush hurriedly down, somewhere very much inappropriate, given the circumstances, way way below his brain, and fills the erectile tissues down there in a sudden flare of enthusiasm , without warning.

John Watsons should always come with a warning. Otherwise it is not fair to blame Sherlock for having improper hard-ons at crime scenes, is it?

In the middle of a thick woodland.

With the freshly murdered ,previously-wanna-be murderer of Sherlock Holmes lying in a pool of blood and gore a few yards away.

And there is a mirthless, evil smile pulling at the corners of John's mouth. A smile that is scary as hell but Sherlock knows that it never fails to make him horny, as long as he is not at the business end of that smile.

But his throat parches when he realizes, all of a sudden, that he is, of course, at the receiving end of that smile.

And to his horror, he also realizes, that it doesn't cease to make him horny as hell.

Flirting with danger is what Sherlock Holmes gets off on.

"How many times, Sherlock....." John's quiet voice holds the fury of a thunderbolt , in the now still and heavy air of the forest . "-how many times do I have to tell you that you should inform the police when chasing down the criminals. That's what the government pays them for. But no, you need all the glory for yourself, you have to put your bloody life in danger again and again , and it could have been you, lying there , had I not turned up at the right moment to save your bloody, smug, arrogant ASS"

"I did" Sherlock replies airily.

"WHAT? "

"I did call the police and they will be here within another forty two minutes and by the way, John, it would be appropriate to turn your voice down a little. You are disturbing the silence of this solitary place which had been undisturbed and preserved for more than hundreds of years, which is already-"

"Shut up"

John isn't shouting anymore.

But there is a timbre to his voice that tolerates no talk-back. That is his Captain Watson voice. And Sherlock's belly does a flip.

And it takes a moment for him to realize that John is actually training his gun at his head.

Sherlock raises his hands in surrender, but he doesn't dare open his mouth any time soon.

For goodness' sake, he is in the middle of a woodland alone, between an enraged, homicidal, gun-wielding flatmate who is pointing his military -issue, therefore no longer legal firearm at him, and the corpse of a copy-cat Jack-the-Ripper serial-killer who had been pointing a gun at him moments ago.

Humph. A wonderful day, isn't it? Fancy a stroll in the forest? Preferably holding hands, discussing how brilliantly he has deduced the identity of the murderer of five prostitutes, by the smear of lipstick on the latest victim's bra and/or how everybody seems to have a death-wish over him this fine early autumn eve?

"If you ever want to be killed, Sherlock, keep it stored in that bloody hard-drive of yours that I will be the one to put that bullet through your head. "

Sherlock swallows.

John Watson often makes good of his words. True knight of the Round Table as he is.

"I have had enough of your blatant disregard to your own life, Sherlock. Because if you imagine that you could again put me through what you have put me through by playing dead for two years, especially now, after sharing my bed with you, after making love to you, then you are seriously mistaken. Your life is not yours to do what you please with it. It. Is. Mine. "

"John I'm sorry. I really am. "Sherlock responds in supplication but it falls upon deaf ears. John shakes his head.

"No, Sherlock. I have had enough. Today ,right here and right now, you are going to learn your lesson. The hard way. " John pauses. "Come here," he beckons.  
Sherlock takes slow and cautious strides towards his flatmate slash his best friend slash his bed-mate slash his beloved slash his protector slash his conductor of light slash his everything.  
And he notices with dread that John still hasn't put his gun-hand down. And in sharp contrast to the coolness that surrounds them, his whole body heats up, and perspiration appears from every pore of his skin.  
"kneel"  
Yes.  
Yes to this.  
John makes love to Sherlock everyday, at every possible hour, till he makes Sherlock feel cherished, pampered, protected, beloved, besotted till he renders the detective all soppy and waxing poetry, quoting Shakespeare and composing music for the love of his life.

But John is capable of this too.

He is capable of making Sherlock weak at his knees, craving domination, control, punishment, wanting to be fucked hard, beaten well and thorough, tortured and humiliated till he is reduced to a ruined mess begging for mercy.

Because he wants John to take him apart, with his bare hands, bit by bit, till he is broken into the smallest elements that he is made of, and fix him back together again. Restore him. Give him lease of fresh life encore. As only John can do.

He drops to the ground on his knees in front of John. He keeps his eyes lowered to the ground. This was more due to his need of hiding his obvious eagerness to his impending fate rather than as a sign of submission. But John doesn't have to know that. Not yet.

But John holds him by his chin and tilts his head up, and looks down at him. John loves being taller, and being able to look down at him. Not that he needs any illusion of power over Sherlock. Because John Watson is a five feet seven inches tall power house of toned muscles, compact body and iron will. And his fingers, which have had experienced so much action, and so much violence , are calloused and strong, and he is holding Sherlock's jaw in a rough grip.

Sherlock watches John's eyes ,mesmerized. Their pupils are dark and their irises ocean blue, with a golden tinge on the edges. Their look is stormy; as he bends his head to meet Sherlock. Then he catches Sherlock's mouth with his, all tongue and teeth, a brutal kiss of desperate relief. Relief of knowing that Sherlock is safe, and alive, to receive it from him. He kisses with everything that he is, with everything that he feared of losing. He thrusts his tongue into the cavity of Sherlock's mouth and explores its inside with a vengeance ;his teeth biting and worrying at Sherlock's soft, plump, cupid's bow lips till its too painful for him to bear. Sherlock understands the kiss for what it is, and they moan in unison into each other. And finally, when John lets go of him, Sherlock gasps for air like a man who was pulled out from perilous depths of an ocean. Oh, he loves drowning in John's kisses. How he loves been shriven by John Watson! How he loves being emersed in John's unique taste, the twin perfume of his masculine scent and his sweat.

But he has not been prepared for the press of the muzzle of the Sig on his temple which immediately follows this passionate kiss.

From the corner of his eyes he tries to see if the safety catch is in place. Oh god, John plays no games it seems. The cold, sleek metal runs along the sweat dampened skin of his temple, brushes his cheekbone and then along his jawline, almost caressingly.

"Oh you bastard, " John growls, "This turns you on, doesn't it? "

Sherlock doesn't answer. Sherlock doesn't have to answer. Because, of all the people in the world, John Watson knows best, of his love affair with death and danger.

The thumb and forefinger of his other hand touch and prod at his kiss swollen lips. "Open", prompts John, and shoves his forefinger inside. Sherlock obediently wraps his lips around it, and starts blowing on it as lovingly and as ardently as he would John's cock.

"look at that little cock-sucking whore going to town on my finger. None but I know what a dirty whore you can be, underneath that Belstaf and posh shirts and dress shoes" John's voice is a soft, lust filled murmer, and it makes Sherlock's trousers suddenly too tight for him, his engorged erection rebelling against its confines.

Guessing has never been Sherlock's preferred method . He observes, gathers data, analyses the evidence and makes a deduction based on scientific reasoning.

And he has often been not so capable of deducing John's next move, especially when it comes to sex, so John always keeps him surprised. And fascinated. Which is good. Sex with John is never boring, will never ever be boring . John is perfect. (They might both be damaged and screwed up in a hundred different ways but it still stands that John is perfect for Sherlock Holmes.)

Therefore he fails to predict that John would roughly stretch his mouth open with his thumb and forefinger ; "you are not getting my cock to suck today, instead, you are going to give a blow job to this. " He brings the pointed sig close to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock's eyes widen, lust and fear battling to get the better of each other . The sight of the set of John's pursed mouth, the flair of his nostrils, the swoop of his greying blond hair and the storm in his eyes decide the battle for lust, and Sherlock sticks his tongue out, touching John's thumb and forefinger with it.

He draws his fingers back, and prods his mouth with the gun in the other hand. "You have a job to do Sherlock, and it doesn't involve pussyfooting around my fingers. "

"Yes, John" Sherlock replies obediently. And circles his slick tongue around the muzzle of the gun, and moves it serpentine along the edge of the gun, all the way towards John's steady hand, careful to stop just a millimeter away from his fingers , and draws it back towards the muzzle. Who would have thought the taste of gun oil or the metal tang of the cold, hard surface of the pistol could be this arousing. He takes a moment to let go of the gun to close his mouth, hollow his cheek and touch the inside of it with his tongue to stimulate his salivary glands, and once his mouth is wet enough, he opens his perfect cupid's bow lips as wide as possible, and makes a show of swallowing the barrel of the gun. "Mmmmmm....."his baritone rumble ends with a sigh. He makes it as messy and wet as possible, lathering the metal with his saliva, slicking up the surface nice and good, like he would prepare John's cock for a mind-blowing blow job. He is making love to it, sliding his mouth up and down along it, hollowing his cheek so that his prominent cheek bones stand out even more pronounced, because oh he knows John loves them. He swirls his tongue around the barrel of the gun, lets its hardness and the rough rail on the lower edge touch his palette, his teeth, the inside of his cheek with a rough and unsympathetic caress. And he looks up from beneath his eyelids which cast a soft shadow on his cheek, and holds John's eyes with his eyes, globes of moonlight covers in a thin autumn mist, holding promises, secrets and mysteries of passion, devotion, darkness and fear. He knows the power their vulnerability have over John, and he intends to use them to their fullest advantage. He moans around the gun and angles his head just so, and slides down till his uvula and tonsils touch the muzzle. "Very good Sherlock. Just the right angle to place a bullet through the base of your skull, if I felt like it", murmurs John, his other hand carding through the soft, dark curls of Sherlock's head. Sherlock holds the gun their, denying himself of breath, waits until the muscles relax around the gun, and deep throats it. "Oh fuck, Sherlock " John's exclamation comes out as a moan, "Fuck, "he pants, breathless, "Sherlock, no deepthroating. Just suck this baby slick and nice."

Sherlock obeys, and releases the gun, only to gasp for breath and dive right down again. Never taking his hooded eyes away from Sherlock's irresistible mouth, John's other hand releases his belt buckle with deft fingers and whoosh, his belt is removed in one swift motion and discarded; thrown away and it hits the ground with a thud. Then Sherlock hears the zipper of his trousers opening. The telltale musky smell of John's arousal reaches his nostrils. It was all he could do not to take a break and steal a look, when he sees in the periphery of his vision how John's bicep rhythmically bulges and relaxes when he slides his hand inside his pants and starts to slowly stroke and fondle his erection. The hollow, low moans that escape Sherlock now aren't just for their dramatic effect anymore, and he balls his hands, which he is keeping on his thighs, till his nails bite hard in to his palms, to prevent them from surging up towards John's prick, or to get a hold of his pert ass.

"Up now, "says John through gritted teeth , and Sherlock struggles to his feet. John draws the gun out, and presses it to the hollow Sherlock's neck. His shoves the Belstaf down his arms and let's it fall on the ground unceremoniously, then tugs Sherlock's light blue shirt tails out of his trousers.

"Tie your hands behind your head"

And Sherlock's shirt rides up with his hands. When John opens three buttons from down, and his knuckles brush Sherlock's abdomen, he gasps, and he sucks his belly in, before arching into the touch. John rucks his shirt up and drags the muzzle of the gun from his belly button up his abs, outlining his ribs , and slides it inside the shirt to reach his pecs. The sleek, cold touch of the metal; a sharp contrast to the heat of his bare skin. It's touch is not so much a caress as it is a rough, punishing scrape, and now John circles it on and around one of his nipples and then moves to the other . John sees how the pink blush which adorns the alabaster skin of his face and neck has now reached below the shirt collar towards his chest. So he opens the shirt rest of the way up to see the roses blooming . And that is when he witnesses that the two dark pink nubs of Sherlock's nipples are hard and erect to the touch of the gun. Sherlock is panting with want, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

John drags the gun down again, and this time, trails the nails of his other hand in its wake, not hard enough to draw blood but close enough. "Oooooooh god, Johnnnn....." Sherlock whines.

Obviously he is feasting on the sensation of pain. The darkness of his pupils has flooded the whole of his diamond irises. Panting huffs of breaths escape through his swollen, pink, half opened lips. A fine sheen of sweat has broken all over his skin and he is devouring every move of John with a pair of wanton , diamond eyes.

"You impossible pain slut. You are enjoying this too much, " John had intended his admonishing voice to be more in command than this. But damn it. Sherlock's lust filled reactions to his ministrations is doing him things.

And Sherlock knows he is an impossible pain-slut, with an impossible threshold of pain. He is John's pain-slut. When John is this dangerous, unpredictable, horny version of himself, Sherlock would take pain from him, and feel it turn into an all-consuming, euphoric fire and lick him with its flames inside and out and Burn him.

And love every passing second of it.

"You are enjoying this too much and this doesn't look like punishment for me! Tell me again. Why are we going through this? "  
"Because I didn't call the police earlier than I did. Come on John, the way we encountered James Burton was pure happenstance. I couldn't have known-"  
"Stop it right now",John cuts him short. "Pure happenstance? No Sherlock, I fucking know how brilliant you are. Nothing is pure happenstance with you. This everything was deliberately planned and you didn't let me in YET AGAIN! You are LYING TO ME AGAIN!"

Sherlock swallows hard and his Adam's apple bobs with it. "John, please -"

"Please what Sherlock? The point is this. If you are not being careful, if you are going to die on me, in front of me yet again, even when you are fully capable of taking precautions to avoid it, I-will-kill-you"

He raises his gun hand, and fires, the bullet whistling past right next to Sherlock's temple, and lodges in the ancient tree trunk. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut while a shiver runs through his spine. The splinters of the tree's bark fly violently, some of the debris landing on his head and shoulders . He hears the spent cartridge ejecting. The barrel camming upward, locking the barrel and the slide.

Something tells Sherlock that they are not play-acting anymore. Sherlock knows his fake suicide is guilty of those scars that are deeply etched into John's soul, and even if the act was committed for the sake of John himself, he has to pay his penance for letting John witness his fall, and grieve his loss for two years.

Sherlock knows that when he opens his eyes again, the madness that he would inevitably see in John's eyes would be too real.

And he would live everyday for the rest of his life, making it up for him.

He feels John's hand gripping his hip. His eyes are still squeezed shut when John slams the gun against the jutting bone there (whereupon he gasps at the sudden pressure), and slide his trousers and pants down to pool around his knees in one go.

"Don't be a fucking coward, Sherlock. Open your eyes and watch what I'm doing to you"

Sherlock has been squeezing his eyelids so tight that it takes some time for him to reorient himself. He watches the journey of the gun from his hipbones to the crease between his groin and thigh. Then the muzzle caresses his balls, and his prick, which unfortunately sagged to semi-hardness after the ere gunshot. Sherlock watches in awe as John coaxes his cock back into its full erect state, encouraging him with his moans and growls and breathy "yes, yes, yes jawn"s. A drop of pre-cum leaves a pearly smear on the gun, and "oh my god jaaaaaawn! " licks it off with the tip of his tongue , causing Sherlock's cock twitch under the gun ,which is loaded with live rounds with its safety switch released.

"Take off your shoes and pants. I want you naked on your hands and knees"

When that command is barked, Sherlock is but all too eagerness to follow. He removes his shoes and socks in record time, and slides his trousers and pants rest of the way down and throws them away where the rest of his clothes went . The fallen leaves covering the cold, hard soil meets his palms and his knees when he presents his luscious, round, hot ass to John.

Cool air causes goosebumps to erupt on his marble sculpted arse and lean, athletic muscles of his thighs and calves. John doesn't loose a moment to grab a handful of Sherlock's ass in a hot, rough grip and he starts kneading it. He leans towards Sherlock, his jean-clad thighs pressing on to the uncovered ass, to whisper, "I'm going to fuck you so hard that you won't be able to walk or sit down for weeks, Sherlock. That is, if my gun doesn't accidentally goes off inside your pretty little ass-hole and empties into your bowels"

Sherlock freezes, and his excited bum-wiggle stops abruptly. He turns his head so that he is able to look at John's face over his shoulder. His eyes are wide with fear and vulnerability, when they meet the unforgiving, no-nonsense look in John's face.

Did he hear what he thinks he heard John has just said? That he is going to fuck him with the gun? Which part of it should he fear the most? The pain that he will suffer from the invasion of the gun into this most intimate and very much sensitive part of his anatomy ? Or the danger of having a loaded gun with no safety, which would go off at the merest mistake, being shoved into his anal passage?

There's such a liberating feeling which unfetters the very depths of your soul, in trusting yourself unconditionally, no holds barred, into the hands of the man you love. When it is John Watson. Especially when it is John Watson. It is for him, and for him alone that Sherlock Holmes would bare himself open. It is only him who Sherlock would ever let witness his helplessness, hopelessness, weakness and susceptibility . With whom he would plea. From whom he would beg for mercy.

John Watson ; his Achilles heel.

"John, please don't -" a ragged whisper , a doe eyed prayer. Regardless, (Sherlock has the option of safeword, is free to use it and he hasn't used it yet) John drags the barrel along his perineum and up his cleft, kneading his gluteal muscles. The soldier's callused touch greedy on the equally enthusiastic lush and soft ass of the detective. The imminent threat doesn't do much to prevent Sherlock from moaning obscenely into his own shoulder, where he is straining his head to see what's going on at his back.

He can't see much, but he hummmms when he feels his man's hot breath near his anal opening. John spits on it, once, twice, and lathers it using the muzzle of the gun, to the chorus of Sherlock's whimpers. Then he feels the cold, hard pressure of the metal upon his hole," oh god, god "(pants of shallow breaths) and the excruciating pain of the breach "aaaaaaaaarghhh!"

John stills his hand, the muzzle inside Sherlock's opening. Sherlock holds his breath, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Even the air around them is holding its breath. And then, one merciless thrust finds the whole of the Sig's barrel lodged deep and snug inside Sherlock. He howls. Over and over again.

"Scream all you like, Sherlock," says John's quiet voice, the sheer amount of malice in it would freeze lava,"- no body is gonna hear you save for that idiot I put to death over there... Because you had been too smug to call for assistance in time" He pauses, letting the point sink into the man who is now silently panting and writhing on the floor. Sherlock has pressed his cheek to the dirt, and he is crushing two fistfuls of rust colored fallen leaves, soil and debris on the ground.

'Thwak'

A resounding slap to his ass cheek makes his head jerk up in a whined "awwh"

"See my belt over there? Of course you do. Bring it to me Sherlock, and I'm going to flog your ass with my belt, and with the gun deep in your butt so you won't forget the feel of it for weeks . But you are not allowed to stand. Or to dislodge the gun from your ass-hole.Believe me Sherlock, you don't really want to find out what I'm gonna do to you if that happens. "

Crawling can be hot. Sexy. You can put your full and curvy ass, the package of heavy balls and hard length, the swing of your hips on display for the pleasure of your lover. But it can never be dignifying . And it is especially humiliating if you have a handgun sticking out of your butt.

And he makes slow progress towards the belt which is lying farther away from them, for the fear of the gun sliding away. The metal is absorbing the heat from Sherlock's butt-hole , and brushes against the inner walls. Sherlock feels that slow stimulation of his prostate building with each swing of his hip, each squeeze of the muscles inside, each step he takes towards the belt lying over there on the ground and in the shadows like a serpent in hiding.

He picks it up with his mouth and bites it down with his teeth to hold it in place, and crawls back to John. Of course he hears the low moan that escapes John at the sight. And of course he can see, through the opened zipper of John's trousers, how his impressive bulge is straining against the placket of his pants, leaving a wet spot in the front.

He takes the belt from Sherlock's mouth, and holding the buckle end on his palm, wraps his fingers around it.

He walks around Sherlock, the crunching sound of his footsteps filling his ears. "Ten, Sherlock " he informs, standing behind him. "Yes, John "

The leather belt swishes through the air and lands on his right butt cheek. The burn takes time to register . John lets him have that pause to strike again, this time, on the left cheek.

Sherlock doesn't make a noise. He writhes and flinches, squeezing his cheeks together . Each hit, each writhe, each flinch makes the metal brush against his sweet spot and it is glorious build up of pleasure, and exquisite torture, and by the time John finishes, Sherlock is overwhelmed with the sensation.

John's touch is cool against the hot and reddened skin of his glutes . He can't help but lick slowly and slickly along the welts which are forming on the alabaster skin, leaving a glistening trail. Then he parts the cheeks with his fingers in no soft way, to take a good look at Sherlock's ass hole. It makes Sherlock feel exposed , used, owned. He whimpers, losing all coherent thought, when John's wet and clever tongue flicks and licks and prods at the stretched, abused, swollen, reddened skin around the gun. The smell of gun oil, gun powder and raw, musky smell of sex, and the sloppy, squelching noises of John's hot, wet tongue playing with Sherlock's hole fills the air, making the surrounding heady.

"Unnnngh, John, John, jawnnnnnnn..!!!", and he feels his balls being tugged down hard, "ugh, oh GOD, no no no that hurts!"

"Enjoying yourself, Sherlock? I haven't even started fucking you yet. And we still have,... how long, about thirty minutes? Hmm? Thirty minutes till any kind of rescue arrives for you, so-",he starts fucking Sherlock with punishing, hard thrusts, punctuating each word shoving the ridged, cold metal deep inside"take-it-like-you-mean-it-sherlock-take-it-like-a-man!"

Sherlock is sure he's drawn blood, biting his lower lip to stop himself from screaming bloody murder, but after a small infinity of relentless thrusts, he loses it. Then his half voiced moans somehow turn into sobs, and then into whimpers and wails... John thrusts his hand between his legs to splay it on his abdomen, and flips Sherlock, so he is lying on the ground on his back, and draws the gun out.

Sherlock lies there, all lithe grace and elegance, writhing and squirming, used and debauched. His cock, full and dripping pre-cum. His face is blotched with red, his rosy and full mouth open and slack, his breaths shallow and erratic, his eyes glistening with every possible emotion you need to see in your lover, and a little bit more.

"Had enough, Sherlock? Do you want my cock in your ass now? "John is wrecked too. Wrecked with his desire and passion. His voice hoarse and gravelly. The shadows of the forest play on his face. "YES Jawn, please! "sobs Sherlock. And John doesn't hesitate a second to bury himself inside Sherlock's open, inviting heat, ramming into him like a man possessed..."oh fuck, you beautiful bastard, you'll be the death of me, won't you, if I don't kill you first? "he pants into Sherlock's chest, his gun pressing into the side of Sherlock's neck. His other hand snakes down between them to hold his throbbing, weeping length, pull down the foreskin and stroke it with urgency, and the noises Sherlock is making becomes utterly obscene. And Sherlock holds onto John 's hips, John's name on his breath like a mantra.

"I'll let you come, my love, "John says between thrusts and strokes, and kisses and nips his pecs," I'll let you come in my hand, my precious pet, and when you come, I will pull the trigger and empty the rest of the rounds down your throat. Would you love to die in my hands, with my cock in your ass? "

And how derailed does that sound? Sherlock feels his balls tightening. His body heating up and sweat breaking. His muscles tensing and his toes curling. And he finds it in him to look into his John's eyes and murmer , " I love you, John Watson, and if I have to go, it will be the best way to go".

"Oh ffffuck! "

John's thrusts become erratic.

He brings the gun to Sherlock's face. "Open!"

Sherlock doesn't open his mouth. Of course he doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die.... He thrashes his head on the ground frantically , his eyes wide with horror.

"Don't make it hard for me" John growls. His gun pointed at Sherlock. That steady hand. That sleek gun. That vein bulging on his temple. That flare of his nostrils. Sherlock arches his swan like neck in sweet submission , this dangerous desire he cannot resist! John thrusts twice more, and empties himself into Sherlock. And that's the last of his self-control dying. "John! "he screams, his ultimate act of surrender.

As if in a trance, he sees John pulling the trigger.

And with it,he feels himself coming in violent spurts, his whole form wracking and bucking.

The shot resounds, the gun springs forward into his open mouth.

A tear escapes his eye.

 

Next thing he knows is John gathering him into his warm and strong arms. 'Are you alright, love, tell me you're alright"  
And Sherlock, a sobbing, shivering, ruined mess as he is, smiles like a loon at John, nuzzles into the embrace.  
"When did you pull the safety catch back in place, John? " he murmurs after sometime . John's fingers are feeling the pulse on his neck, and he sighs in relief when it progresses from erratic to regular.  
"Did the great Sherlock Holmes just admit that his sidekick actually manged to do something hidden from his ever observant smartarse self? "  
Sherlock doesn't answer. Somewhere within the core of himself he is aware of the all consuming way John loves him, and that he would go to the hell and back to protect him, and that he wouldn't have pulled the trigger on him.  
"I'd still love you, even after I die" he whispers , into John's neck.  
"Fuck you, just don't die on me Sherlock "  
"I'll try"  
"Idiot "  
"Your idiot"  
"Put your clothes on, they must be close by"  
Sherlock huddles into the warmth of John even tighter. He's exhausted, and how he could be arsed into dressing up again is beyond him. Can he just fall asleep here, in the mist and in the arms of his lover?  
" Don't see the necessity. Lestrade might like to get an eyeful of my beautiful and sated masculinity on display" his voice a low rumble.  
"Huh, " John chuckles, "You are impossible . Get up! "

**Author's Note:**

> And please please please, I'm hungry for comments and kudos. So if you have enjoyed my little piece of writing, do leave your love for me to bask in it.  
> Constructive criticism is welcome too.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @loneoldwolf


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